I must stop procrastinating these long-promised posts on supporting someone with a mental illness. It's a tricky topic, but I believe it is one of the most important we've touched on so far. That may be why it has taken me so long to get up the courage to put it out there—I'm afraid I won't do it justice. I admit that's a perfectionist/OCD fear, so I'd better face the fear and do it anyway!
If you know someone with a mental illness (and odds are, whether you know it or not, you do) and you want to be a blessing to them, you'll likely face some eggshell-delicate situations. If you really engage with them as a Christian brother or sister, you will have to wrestle with their pain, their guilt, and plenty rather muddy theological issues. And if you walk alongside them any distance, you'll find it impossible to avoid the muck and mire of their suffering.
In the next several posts, I tell stories of the blessings and support I received from amazing friends and family during the worst of my illness. It is my hope that you will find inspiration to do something similar for a person you know.
It is the fourth month of my pregnancy. I'm just home from my trip overseas, still down with a scary unknown tropical illness. Some friends have invited Jem and I over to their house for lunch. They don't know how much I've been struggling, but they ask how the pregnancy is going. I don't yet know that my worries are about to blow up into panic attacks and OCD, but I already have a sinking feeling of slipping hard and fast into another depression. I tell them about being sick, and my guilt and fear, and they pray for me right then and there.
Hearing someone pray for me out loud is powerful. I know I'm not forgotten; they're reminding God about me. These same friends continue throughout my pregnancy to ask about me, send cards, even bring over a meal. They keep praying and I'm buoyed up by their strength.
It's one of the few Sundays I make it to church during the second half of my pregnancy. One young mom walks over to me and asks how I'm doing. Now I've lived with mental illness long enough to know that trying to hide it is neither helpful nor ultimately possible. So when she asks with honest interest, I reply,
-I'm doing awful.
-Is it nausea still?
-No, no, panic attacks, actually.
-Oh! I know!
Seriously?, I think. That's not the response I expected, but wow is it good to hear.
-You do?
Indeed she does, and though her situation and anxieties were not all the same as mine, she really can understand. She spends time with me, walking me through her illness and recovery, and all the resources and materials that helped her get through. Knowing that I'm not alone, that someone else nearby has actually gotten through something similar is tremendous comfort.
Dear friend, your pain became comfort for me.
Another panic attack. Jem's at work, I'm shaking and crying over spilled rice: I've heard of food poisoning from rice. The offending grains are all over my counter from dinner last night. Should I use bleach?
My pregnant self is suffering a serious blood sugar dive, but I can't prepare food on that counter.... I don't know who to talk to: I can't reach my mom, Jem's not answering his work phone. I'm hungry and thirsty, but panic-paralyzed.
Finally, in tears and desperation, I walk upstairs to our landlords'. I'm so embarrassed that I can't even clean up rice, but I need help! I know they are the kind of people who will try to understand, and are willing to help. They have already driven me to a psychiatrist appointment, and have borne with my recently way-too-frequent laundry and long showers.
They aren't home, but their mother who lives with them is sitting on the couch listening to a book on tape. She's a dear, godly lady, over ninety and losing her vision. A real prayer warrior; I am aware she prays for everyone she knows. Even though she can't see me, she knows I'm upset. She gets up, walks over to me, holds my hand for a long time until I stop shaking. The touch of her feather-soft hands brings me slowly back to now. My pounding heart quiets.
If you know someone with a mental illness (and odds are, whether you know it or not, you do) and you want to be a blessing to them, you'll likely face some eggshell-delicate situations. If you really engage with them as a Christian brother or sister, you will have to wrestle with their pain, their guilt, and plenty rather muddy theological issues. And if you walk alongside them any distance, you'll find it impossible to avoid the muck and mire of their suffering.
In the next several posts, I tell stories of the blessings and support I received from amazing friends and family during the worst of my illness. It is my hope that you will find inspiration to do something similar for a person you know.
* * *
It is the fourth month of my pregnancy. I'm just home from my trip overseas, still down with a scary unknown tropical illness. Some friends have invited Jem and I over to their house for lunch. They don't know how much I've been struggling, but they ask how the pregnancy is going. I don't yet know that my worries are about to blow up into panic attacks and OCD, but I already have a sinking feeling of slipping hard and fast into another depression. I tell them about being sick, and my guilt and fear, and they pray for me right then and there.
Hearing someone pray for me out loud is powerful. I know I'm not forgotten; they're reminding God about me. These same friends continue throughout my pregnancy to ask about me, send cards, even bring over a meal. They keep praying and I'm buoyed up by their strength.
* * *
It's one of the few Sundays I make it to church during the second half of my pregnancy. One young mom walks over to me and asks how I'm doing. Now I've lived with mental illness long enough to know that trying to hide it is neither helpful nor ultimately possible. So when she asks with honest interest, I reply,
-I'm doing awful.
-Is it nausea still?
-No, no, panic attacks, actually.
-Oh! I know!
Seriously?, I think. That's not the response I expected, but wow is it good to hear.
-You do?
Indeed she does, and though her situation and anxieties were not all the same as mine, she really can understand. She spends time with me, walking me through her illness and recovery, and all the resources and materials that helped her get through. Knowing that I'm not alone, that someone else nearby has actually gotten through something similar is tremendous comfort.
Dear friend, your pain became comfort for me.
* * *
Another panic attack. Jem's at work, I'm shaking and crying over spilled rice: I've heard of food poisoning from rice. The offending grains are all over my counter from dinner last night. Should I use bleach?
My pregnant self is suffering a serious blood sugar dive, but I can't prepare food on that counter.... I don't know who to talk to: I can't reach my mom, Jem's not answering his work phone. I'm hungry and thirsty, but panic-paralyzed.
Finally, in tears and desperation, I walk upstairs to our landlords'. I'm so embarrassed that I can't even clean up rice, but I need help! I know they are the kind of people who will try to understand, and are willing to help. They have already driven me to a psychiatrist appointment, and have borne with my recently way-too-frequent laundry and long showers.
They aren't home, but their mother who lives with them is sitting on the couch listening to a book on tape. She's a dear, godly lady, over ninety and losing her vision. A real prayer warrior; I am aware she prays for everyone she knows. Even though she can't see me, she knows I'm upset. She gets up, walks over to me, holds my hand for a long time until I stop shaking. The touch of her feather-soft hands brings me slowly back to now. My pounding heart quiets.
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